Enemy in Sight! (40 page)

On the
Hyperion'
s quarterdeck he found Inch waiting for him, one arm in a sling, his tattered coat across his shoulders like a cape. Bolitho reached his side and studied him. The sight of Inch did more than he would have thought possible to control his ris- ing emotion.

He said quietly, “I believe I ordered you below?”

Inch showed his teeth in a painful grin. “I thought you would like to know, sir. The commodore was unconscious throughout the battle. But he is astir now and
demanding brandy.

Bolitho grasped his good hand, Inch's face suddenly blurred and out of focus. “And he shall have it, Mr Inch!”

He looked past Gossett's huge grin and the capering, cheer- ing gunners. The ship was mastless and heavy in the water, and he could almost feel her pain like his own.

Then he clapped his hat across the rebellious lock of hair and said firmly, “We've sailed a long way together, Mr Inch.”

He unbuckled his sword and handed it to Allday.

“Now, if
Hyperion
is to be jury-rigged enough to lead our prizes back to Plymouth, there is a great deal of work to be done.”

He could feel the emotion pricking his eyes but continued in the same brisk tones, “So what are we waiting for, eh?”

Inch looked at him sadly. Then he replied, “I'll attend to it
directly,
sir!”

E
PILOGUE

T
HE WINDOWS
of the Golden Lion Inn were no longer sealed against the rain and icy wind but were thrown open to receive what was little more than a gentle breeze. There were no white horses cruising across Plymouth Sound, and the bright midday sun threw a million dancing reflections from the blue water and played down upon the jostling sightseers along the road and jetty with friendly warmth.

But the telescope on its tripod was still there, and the room exactly as Bolitho had remembered it. And yet it was different in some way, and as he stared down at the slow-moving throng of townspeople below the window he was conscious of the stillness at his back, a quiet emptiness which seemed to be waiting for him to leave. Even now he could hear the landlord shuffling beyond the closed door, no doubt still wondering at Bolitho's strange request and fretting with impatience for him to depart so that some new guests would take over the room, as he had once done.

Most of the people along the busy waterfront had come for one purpose only. To see the ships at anchor, to display pride or horror at their battle-scarred appearance, as if by watching and waiting they, too, might share in some way the visible evidence of this victory. Any success was welcome in these uncertain times, but to see the spoils of war, and savour the sights and smells of conflict and death were to most people far more satisfactory than some vague account in the
Gazette
or hearing the shouted news from some hard-riding courier on his way to London.

Bolitho touched the brass telescope with his fingers and watched the busy comings and goings of small boats as they car- ried their paying passengers around the towering shape of the anchored
Tornade,
Lequiller's great three-decker, which within months would be at sea once again under the flag of her old enemy. With a new captain and company, and perhaps her old identity concealed behind some carefully chosen name.

He was thankful that
Hyperion
was not down there for all to see and examine like some grotesque relic. Almost as soon as they had crept into the Sound on the previous morning she had been warped into the dockyard, her pumps still struggling manfully to keep the vengeful sea at bay. One thing was certain. The old
Hyperion
would never fight again. Now, with the unwounded rem- nants of her company paid off and scattered to the demands of the fleet, she was lying empty and lifeless to await her final fate. At best she might be used as a receiving ship. At worst . . . Bolitho tried again to shut his mind to the possibility, she might end her days in some estuary or river as a prison hulk. He had left her just a few hours earlier, saddened at what he had seen, yet knowing that he could never have left without that final under- standing which had grown between them.

As he had walked across the splintered quarterdeck he had thought of the voyage home after the battle. It had taken nearly two weeks, and had the Bay of Biscay chosen to turn on them, the
Hyperion
would be out there now resting on the sea's bottom in peace. At the end of the first week the slow-moving ships had been hit by a sharp squall, and one of the French two-deckers had broken her tow and turned turtle within a few minutes. If the squall had not passed over just as swiftly, it was doubtful if the
Hyperion
would have survived either.

It had meant constant work and effort, and all the coaxing and skill they could muster to survive. Each day had seemed like a week, and every one had been marked by sea burials as yet more of the wounded had given up the struggle.

Then at last they had met with Sir Manley Cavendish's squadron and the burden had eased somewhat. But Bolitho had been too spent and worn out by strain to recall much more than blurred images and disjointed pictures of the events and the suf- fering which had made this moment in time possible.

Sympathy and congratulations, Cavendish gripping his hand and murmuring hints of recognition and possible promotion, all seemed lost in time and with no real substance.

When he had walked along the dockside, studying the great shot holes in the ship's hull, the smoke stains and patches of dried blood, he had wondered if the ship herself could feel and under- stand that her life was indeed over.

But when he had reached the bows he had stood looking up at the fierce-eyed figurehead and just for a few moments had imagined he had found his answer. There was no dismay or empty despair there. The Sun God's stare was as steady as ever, and the out-thrust trident still pointed to some invisible horizon with the same indifference and arrogance as ever. Perhaps after twenty- three years of hard service the ship was ready for retirement, and it was wrong to wish her otherwise.

All the way from the dockyard he had found himself won- dering what would happen to himself. The rest of his company, willingly or otherwise, would all soon be at sea again, their lives merging and joining with new ships and different worlds almost before they had found time to give thanks for their survival. It had been hard to see them go, to find the words which always seemed so plentiful when it was too late and the right moment had passed. Gossett and Tomlin, and all the others who had shared and done so much. And of course there was Inch, who even now was seeking out the girl he hoped to marry before he, too, was posted to another ship to serve, Bolitho hoped, a cap- tain who might take the time to understand his ways and appreciate his unwavering loyalty.

Many of the
Hyperion'
s survivors had luckily been sent straight to Herrick's ship to replace some of the many casualties, and they, too, would be at sea in a matter of weeks. For if the
Impulsive'
s human losses had been great, her actual damage had been incred- ibly light.

Even Pelham-Martin seemed strangely satisfied. Perhaps the thought of resting on the laurels of his wound, with the added prospect of receiving the massive portion of prize-money which would come his way from the blood of others less fortunate, would disperse his earlier threats of charges for insubordination. Bolitho found that he neither hoped nor cared.

The door opened a few inches and the landlord called anx- iously, “Beg pardon, Cap'n, but I was wonderin' how long you was intendin' to stay?” He coughed as Bolitho turned to look at him. “There be another seafarin' gennleman an' his lady comin' very soon, an' . . .” His voice trailed away as Bolitho picked up his hat and walked to the door.

“I have done, thank you.”

The landlord knuckled his forehead and watched him cross to the stairs with obvious relief.

Bolitho guessed that the man did not even remember him, and why should he? Yet he could recall exactly the moment of that last parting here. Seven months ago. He quickened his pace and had to forcibly stop himself from turning to look back. As if he expected to see her there on the landing, watching him go.

He almost collided with a young commander and a bright- eyed girl as they hurried up the wide stairway towards him. He watched them pass. He could have been invisible to their eyes. Their time, as his had once been, was too precious to share, too valuable to waste beyond their private happiness.

At the foot of the stairs he paused and studied himself in the wall mirror. It had been a mistake to come here. Or was it merely one more method of delaying what he must do? He thought he heard the sounds of wheels and hoofs on the roadway outside and swung away from the mirror with something akin to panic.

Back to Falmouth, but to find what? Would the house really seem so empty, or could there still be some lingering presence which he could hold and share with no one? He felt a sudden stirring of hope, a strange power which moved him beyond imag- ination.

He stepped out into the blinding sunlight and touched his hat as some passersby gave him a cheer, and one even held up his child to see him better.

The coach was indeed waiting, and Allday stood beside it, his eyes slitted against the sun as he idly watched the sightseers, his tanned features showing little of the strain which he had endured over the past weeks.

Bolitho asked quickly, “Is everything ready?”

Allday nodded. “All stowed.” He gestured with his thumb. “What about him, Captain?”

Bolitho turned and saw the boy sitting on a bollard studying the small ship model which Bolitho had been given at St. Kruis.

He said, “Come here, Mr Pascoe!”

As the boy walked towards him Bolitho felt both sad and strangely moved. More than that, he was suddenly ashamed. For thinking only of his own loss and hurt when others, many oth- ers, had so much to bear with less to sustain them through it. And Hugh was dead, too. Buried at sea with all the rest. Yet this boy, who had faced sights and deeds more terrible than he could have imagined existed, had known nothing of his true identity.

Pascoe stood looking up at him, his eyes clouded and tired.

Bolitho reached out and rested one hand on his shoulder. “We've not got all day, you know, Adam.”

“Sir?”

Bolitho turned away, unable to watch Allday's pleasure or the boy's obvious gratitude.

He said harshly, “We're going
home,
so get in, will you!”

The midshipman snatched up his bag and scrambled after him.

“Thank you, Uncle,” was all he could find to say.